Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (18 page)

He braced his feet against the dead man, using the body to hurriedly push himself back up onto his feet and towards a hulking bulldozer for cover. Two gunshots sounded as he ducked behind the machine, one clanging dangerously close as it made contact with the dozer. As the report of the shots faded into the night, Declan stayed low behind the machine, listening to the gunman shifting his stance frequently in an effort to get a shot. He was located at the opposite edge of the lot to Declan's truck, where he had been searching.

"Myers? Myers?" the gunman called in a harsh whisper.

Declan listened for any indication that more men were getting out of the SUV and heard none. The gunman was apparently talking to his fallen friend, confirming that they had been alone in the SUV.

"Ah, you're a dead man when I find you!" the gunman said, raising his voice to address Declan as he realized his friend was deceased.

Moving to the other side of the bulldozer, Declan crouched down and leaned around the edge of the machine. He could see the body of the man called Myers a few yards in front of him lying near the cab of his overturned truck. The guy was white and had a head full of unkempt blonde hair. Just as his voice had indicated, his appearance made it obvious that he wasn't one of the men Declan had seen with Ruslan Baktayev the previous night. These guys were something else entirely, thugs who had been hired by someone to kill him and his wife.

He looked the body up and down for any signs that the man had been carrying a gun. There was nothing in his hands or on the ground near him except the flashlight he'd been using, its beam shining away into the night just like the vacant eyes of its former owner. Did the men really have only one gun between the two of them? Maybe the dead guy had dropped his back on the highway after they'd tried to shoot from a moving vehicle. Whatever the reason, the body had nothing that would be of use in the current situation.

Declan moved his eyes up from the body as he continued to listen to the slow movements of the gunman. The man had crept forward and was apparently working his way towards the bulldozer. The beam of his flashlight, undoubtedly aimed in the same direction as his gun, was shining over the opposite end of the dozer from where Declan was positioned. If the man continued on his current path Declan knew he could double back as he came past the dozer, but he needed a weapon to make sure his attack was effective. This time he wouldn't have the element of surprise.

Retreating behind the tread of the dozer in case the gunman moved suddenly in an unexpected direction, Declan looked around for anything he could use as a weapon. A gun or knife would be preferable, but even a blunt object would work. He just needed to do as much damage as possible on the first strike or else the man could come back at him. Based on the guy's movements, he thought it likely that he was a trained soldier or officer of some kind and had no desire to stand toe to toe with him in a fist fight and find out how well trained he was. Looking over his shoulder to the operator's cab of the dozer, he saw that the windows had been removed. Underneath the operator's seat were a dirty cloth and several hand tools. Slowly he stood upright and reached into the cab. Through the open cab he could see the beam of the gunman's flashlight darting around in front of the dozer, the man himself hidden from view by the dozer's front blade. Inside the cab he felt the handle of a tool and picked it up. Bringing his arm down to his side, he looked to find that the tool was a small garden spade.
Perfect.
Memories of his training by Russian Special Forces surfaced and he thought about the entrenching spades that each member of the Black Shuck Unit had been given on their first day. These, they were taught, were your life line; one part tool, one part weapon.

Holding the spade, he slowly rolled out around the edge of the dozer and began making his way towards the front blade. The gunman was still at the front of the dozer, his location given away by his flashlight beam which glanced off the trees next to the machine. Apparently the man was wondering whether Declan had taken off into the woods beyond or had gone around the other side of the machine. He was about to find out.

Suddenly the flashlight beam stopped moving and Declan held his breath as he stood still. Had the man heard him approaching? He waited, watching as the beam slowly began moving again. The gunman was about to roll out around the bulldozer's blade and aim his gun at the spot where Declan had been hiding moments before.

As the movement of the beam sped up suddenly, Declan stepped forward around the blade and saw the gunman's back as he aimed his weapon at the rear of the dozer. The man's eyes flitted quickly to his peripheral right and Declan knew that he'd been seen. The gunman made a quick quarter turn, bringing the gun around to fire. Throwing the spade at the man's head as a distraction, Declan dove headfirst into him and drove him to the ground with his right shoulder. Rolling over top of him and into a standing position, he turned and came back at the stunned gunman as he scrambled to his feet. Kicking the gun to the left as the man tried to aim, he threw a punch and his fist connected with the man's jaw, pushing him against the blade of the bulldozer. Declan pinned him there with his body while he grabbed for the pistol.

Gripping the barrel of the gun for control and pushing the gunman against the dozer, he wrestled for the weapon. The gunman held on tight with both hands and tried to push him away. Shooting his head forward, he caught Declan's nose with a strong head-butt, driving him back. Declan held onto the gun as his eyes filled with tears and his legs buckled. He felt blood run over his upper lip and into his mouth. Breathing heavily, he spat it from his mouth, covering the man's tan coat in dark red dots. The gunman put the entire weight of his body against the gun and tried to force it down to get off a shot, but Declan planted his feet and pushed back. With the man now standing over him and his feet slipping against the muddy ground, he knew he couldn't match the man's leverage for long. Throwing his foot up and falling onto his back, he caught the man in the groin and pulled him forward, throwing him over onto his back. Standing up quickly, but staggering for a moment, he looked at the gunman who was sprawled out on his back and fighting hard to recover from the shock of the two hits, the pistol still in his hand.

Declan moved quickly and dropped his knee on the man's wrist, pinning the pistol to the ground. Adrenaline pumping, he drove his fist into the man's face, dropping his weight into each punch. Blood exploded from gunman's nose and he choked as it flowed into his mouth.
How dare they try to kill me?
Declan thought as he pounded away.

"How dare they try to ruin my life!" he growled, unaware that he was speaking aloud.

The sound of his own voice surprised him and jarred him back to reality. One last punch fell limp onto the man's face as Declan struggled to catch his breath. He fell onto his backside and sat there staring at the scene. He knew by the gunman's vacant eyes that he was dead, his head crushed between a rock on the ground and the fist that had been pounding on him moments before. Blood leaked from the wound on the back of his head and mixed with the mud underneath.

Declan brought his legs up slowly and pushed himself into a standing position. Breathing heavily from the fight, he looked around for anyone else nearby. He was alone. Stooping down, he pulled the pistol from the gunman's hand and checked it over. It was a Smith & Wesson Sigma style handgun with a standard sixteen capacity magazine. The man had fired two shots at him which meant there should be fourteen left including the one in the chamber. He released the magazine and looked at the tiny holes in the side of it. Counting eleven rounds, he reinserted it into the grip and moved away from the bulldozer. He had to get to his house fast; to his wife who wouldn't be able to defend herself the way he just had against the two men that were apparently waiting for confirmation from their now dead compatriots. How long would they wait? If they didn't receive the call would they move in anyway or abandon their mission and return to their employer?

With his own truck overturned, Declan approached the battered white SUV that sat idling in the middle of the dirt road, its fenders dented and scratched from the impacts with his vehicle as the men had attempted to push him off the road. With the pistol aimed in front of him, he moved around the vehicle checking to be sure no one was waiting inside. He opened the driver's door and got behind the wheel, looking over his shoulder at the empty passenger compartment behind him. He tossed the pistol onto the passenger seat and pulled the SUV into gear. The engine rattled as it chugged grudgingly forward. Moments later, after craning his neck to look for oncoming traffic, he pulled into the westbound lane of route 460. The road was empty. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and drove for home, images of Constance's vacant eyes staring at him from just beyond the windshield.

7:59 p.m. Eastern Time – Saturday

Verndale Drive

Roanoke, Virginia

Turning right, Declan drove south towards his home. Just beyond the windshield two more sets of dead eyes haunted him. Until last night it had been a decade since he'd had to pull the trigger and end a person's life. Now he would have four new faces to reconcile with when he closed his eyes at night, even though he knew his actions had been in self-defense. Some of the dead glared at him with hatred, rightly blaming him for their deaths. Others, most of them friends, stared at him in mute warning, cautioning him that he would end up the same way; staring eternally into the eyes of his own killer.

His headlights flashed over the parked cars and manicured yards that lined Verndale Drive. His neighbors sat comfortably in their homes for the night. Paying mortgages, keeping their families happy, and trying to find some time leftover for themselves were their biggest challenges. Most Americans had no idea what it was like to wake up each morning wondering if today would be
your
last, or someone else's. He had tried to forget, to be one of them. He'd succeeded for a while, but it seemed that no matter what, death was a part of his life. It might lose track of him for a time, but eventually it would catch up with a vengeance, just like it had in the last twenty-four hours.

He forced himself to focus on the situation at hand as he guided the white SUV around the last bend in the road before his house. Constance was in danger. As fast as he'd tried to drive, the SUV only had so much power in its damaged state. Several times along the way he'd wondered if the vehicle would even make it. White smoke poured from its tail pipe and the accelerator vibrated heavily each time he pressed it.

Who could these men be working for? The two men who had attacked him along the road hadn't been Chechens or even Muslims as far as he could tell. By every indication, they were Americans and not all that different from the kind of men he dealt with on a daily basis, although it was clear they had some kind of military or law enforcement training. He didn't know much about Ruslan Baktayev, but he doubted that a man who had been imprisoned in Russia for over eight years could know too many Americans. Like Kafni and Harel had suggested, there had to be someone else involved.

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by a flash of light in the darkness of the park across from his driveway. He slowed the SUV and made a quick left. Circling into the driveway of a darkened house like a homeowner returning from an evening out, he doused his headlights and watched as the cherry on the end of a cigarette floated alone in the air, providing the only visible evidence of the person sitting there. As the person inhaled the outline of a human jaw appeared followed by the outline of a car door frame. The person was seated in a car watching the driveway of his house.

He knew the streets of the neighborhood well and knew that he could easily make his way around a few houses and get the drop on the man, but his instincts told him he wasn't alone. He looked up and down the parts of Verndale Drive that he could see for any vehicles that seemed out of place, but saw nothing. The minivans, utility trucks and economy sized sedans all fitted the area and there was no sign of anyone inside any of them. A thought crept up on him, slowly at first and then accelerating like a splinter into the end of a finger. A sick feeling settled in his stomach as the realization hit him: what if the man in the park was only the lookout for more who were already in his house?

He had to know if Constance was safe. Rooting around in the vehicle he found a cell phone and retrieved it from the dashboard. He dialed her number, keeping the phone in his lap so the light from the LED wouldn't alert anyone to his presence. He clicked on the speaker phone as the call connected. Five rings later her voicemail answered.

"Hi you've reached Constance McIv—" he hung up, pounding his fist lightly against the steering wheel, biting his bottom lip. He pressed the resend button.

"Hi you've reached Con—" he hung up again and again pressed the resend button. Images of his wife lying on the floor of their house in a pool of blood flashed through his mind, her eyes wide open and staring into the void, like so many others he'd seen.